Dazed and Confused
by Slayer2003
Summary: Scars, veils, and cigarettes. A series of three vaguely chronological vignettes about Renee Walker. J/R


Disclaimer: Don't own the rights to 24, not trying to make any money.

AN: Haven't written in a while, so I'm trying to get back on the horse! Please leave some feedback, positive or constructive.

1.

You haven't seen him in since that day, not even two months ago. He called, of course, but you simply weren't functional enough to do much more than drift back and forth from the couch and the bed and get the door (nervously) when your takeout arrived. And what would you have said to him anyway? Thanks for opening my eyes, making me a better agent, ruining my life. You only blame him half-heartedly. Maybe you always knew that this was the inevitable end of the path you started down the first day you carried the badge. You've blurred the line between right and wrong so badly now that there is nothing left in a world in which everything distinguishes itself through contrast, opposites. Everything is grey.

So when you finally dragged yourself out of bed with the intent of doing something useful (there is only one thing you are good at), got hired, fired, and then at CTU, you never expected to be standing so tensely in front of Jack Bauer while he warily examines the scars on your wrist. He's standing so close you can smell him, clean and comforting this morning perhaps but now with an overlay of acrid smoke, sweat, and adrenaline that is uniquely Jack. You were relieved to see him at first, enjoyed hearing the quiet, comforting timbre of his voice, but now he's looking at your wrists right into the darkest part of you and you feel a rush of fear which you immediately tamp down. The comfortable conversation slides away as he accuses you of being incapable. He doesn't say the words but all you hear are _weak, vulnerable, useless._

"I wouldn't have signed up for this if I wasn't ready," you'd said, tone clipped.

"I don't think you are," he'd replied, earnestly. You know he isn't trying to hurt you, but it makes you so angry that he would dare question something you've spent months assuring yourself of. That this is what you're best at, and that if you can't be functional in any other way, at least you have the balls to go out and get things done in a way that anyone who has anything to lose could not. You yank your arm more forcefully from his gentle grasp than is strictly necessary and ball up your fist at your side. Inside yourself, you repeat your new mantra.

_I am not a monster. _

2.

He's shouting at you again. You aren't really sure what he's saying, but you can tell he's livid. You see the tendons in his neck straining and his lips moving, as if in slow motion. If there wasn't a hazy screen in between you and the world you might be able to see the fear in his eyes. Why can't you hear what he's saying?

You tilt your head and wince as something wet drops into your eyes, stinging. You try to lift your hand to your forehead, but it feels like you're moving through syrup. You touch your forehead and your hand comes away red. You look at it and wonder where it came from, but then the flames catch your eye. An explosion? Maybe. You don't remember. All you know is that Jack is angry, and he's shouting at you and you suddenly feel like you're eight years old again, being scolded for knocking over a precious vase. The power imbalance unsettles you- you have to fix it. You take a step forward. _Maybe if I just -_

Then suddenly like a rush of cold water, someone pulls the cotton from your ears and the real world comes flooding back. For some reason your eyes are closed, but you can hear the wail of sirens in the distance and smell and Jack and your head hurts and you suddenly come to the startling realization that you're kissing him and your hands are travelling of their own accord down his chest. It couldn't have been for more than a split second because he's caught your wrists and pushed you away from him almost violently.

Your eyes fly open as he gasps your name and looks at you totally bewildered.

"I'm sorry," you say breathlessly, taking a step back, feeling the overwhelming urge to turn on your heel and run as far away as possible.

You see his own shock wear off as he takes a step towards you. "It's alright," he says reassuringly. "Let me take you home."

You nod as tears well into your eyes. He offers you his hand, and you take it.

3.

I swore to my mother I would never smoke.

Just another broken promise, I guess.

I hadn't meant to, really. But after all was said and done and I'd cleaned up my desk and signed all the papers and ignored the last distasteful stare, I hit the pavement stumbling like someone running out of control down a hill. The stillness, the purposelessness, being alone with my own thoughts. All terrifying. I took to wandering the streets late at night, wondering if around the next corner there was some thug mugging an old man or groping up the skirt of some terrified woman who I could hurt. My own personal, fucked up vigilante justice league. One night I caught the scent of a cigarette drifting off a dim porch and had some distant memory of my grandfather with his pipe, always comforting and warm. I ducked into the nearest corner store and nervously asked for a pack of Marlboroughs, clenching my fists like some stupid teenager hoping not to be asked for ID.

I don't smoke a lot. Only when I wake up from a nightmare shaking so hard my teeth chatter. Like right now, and I swipe my pack off the kitchen counter and stumble out onto the porch because sometimes there isn't a single room inside my house with enough oxygen. The sky has begun to lighten already, but exhaustion weighs heavily on me. It feels like I slept for minutes instead of hours.

I exhale a shaky breath, annoyed that I've forgotten my lighter, again. Just as I turn to go get it the door creeks open behind me.

"Looking for this?" he asks, holding it up. A blanket is draped over his other arm.

"How did you know?" I ask, and reach for it. It's not something I'd ever told him about, or done in front of him. It would be a sign of weakness, maybe.

He smiles knowingly but doesn't answer. We take a seat on the porch and I quickly light up, sighing in relief as the calming rush flows through me. He tucks the blanket over my shoulders and slowly I stop shivering.

Still gazing into the twilight he takes my hand and rubs calming circles with his thumb. I feel my heart rate slow, my muscles relax, and my breath even out_. _

It's not the tobacco.


End file.
